Crickets singing all night: Arizona hotsprings

Again the parking lot is full, but not as full as the year before. From experience we know that most of the hotspring revellers would be gone by nightfall. We pack our backpacks – this time mine is a bit smaller since our load is divided by three instead of two – and have one of our standard lunches: bread, cheese and ham before we are on our way close to three in the afternoon. The temperature is perfect, nice and warm but not too hot. Finally we can wear shorts!

Finally, too, I can greet some familiar blooms: brittlebush and globe mallow, lupins and desert primrose appear here and there along our trail, though nowhere near in full bloom yet. It has been a long, cold winter everywhere, it seems – or are we just that much earlier than other years?

People start coming back from the hotsprings; by the time we arrive at our camping spot I will have counted about 70 – it's a good thing they didn't all stay down. On the first somewhat tedious part of the trail, down through the wash and then in a slow uphill to the top of the rocky descent, a young couple with backpacks passes us. Uh-oh, are we losing our camp spot this time? There is no way we can keep up with them, light-footed and with a swifter pace than ours. There is, of course, no guarantee anyway that we'll find 'our' camp spot unoccupied; it's always a bit of a worry. But (often cited words): We'll cross that bridge when we get there. 

Not too far along the steep and sometimes rocky descent we come upon the young couple again: she obviously is scared, and they are taking it slow. We pass them and stay ahead of them for the rest of the way. Yay! Who would have thought?

It feels so good to be here! Every once in a while I have to stop and just gaze down into the canyon, let my eyes rest on the mountains in the distance. I don't think we'll ever get tired of coming here. How long will we be able to make this hike, especially the hike out, with big packs? Again, we'll cross that bridge ...

Trying to stay ahead of the young couple we make it down in record time, just an hour and fifteen minutes. We can hardly believe that we're there already when we reach the last opening of the canyon and see the widening wash ahead of us, but there can be no doubt: those mesquite trees along the high wall are where our tent has always been pitched – and there is nobody else's tent either. Great!

We put up our tents and get settled in while the sun slowly starts to disappear behind the high walls of the canyon. Some small birds are singing, talking back and forth from one blooming creosote bush to another. More people pass us on their way back; I count 68 altogether from the beginning of our hike.

Johann wants to show Dorothee the Colorado and the canyon on the other side, but I've had enough for one day. Sitting on a rock across from the tents I just let myself be taken over by a feeling of utter wellbeing, suddenly tinged with sadness when I think of my brother who would have loved all this, too. Evening descends. Insects are starting their night music, and bats dart back and forth above me, sometimes close to my head. Taurus with the bright smudge of the Seven Sisters appears above me, followed by Orion, Sirius showing up a bit later. When I lean back I can see the Big Dipper, its handle pointing earthward, Castor and Pollux partway between the two constellations.

Later, just when we are enjoying our noodle soup supper, a lone hiker arrives, carrying a backpack. He greets us in passing, then turns to the right shortly after. We see his headlamp on the low ridge across from us: he, too, is putting up a tent, it seems, though it's hardly noticeable from where we are.

Slowly the sound of voices from the hotsprings – magnified by the narrow canyon so that it always sounds as if there are more people than there actually are – abates. It is time for us to soak. Quickly we traverse the short gravelly draw to the pools, cross the almost unbearably hot first small pool, then the second, slightly cooler, and find the third, biggest pool empty of people. Here, we can sit and relax; it might be a bit on the hot side but is totally fine for enjoying a glass of wine. In vain we try to keep our candles going: the slight breeze coming down the canyon keeps extinguishing the small flame. That's okay; it's a bright night even though the moon is only about half now.

To cool off we climb over the sandbags a while later to sit in the lowest, coolest pool right beside the ladder I haven't climbed in seven years (and don't intend to climb now, even though it has been replaced with an even sturdier structure and railings, so I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore). We share the pool with two young women, and after a while we start talking. They came by canoe on the Colorado, two sisters who do this every year together, and are staying at the campground below the pools. We inquire about Goblin Valley State Park, a destination in Utah we have tentatively added to our route on the way back after I read about it, and they enthusiastically encourage us to go there. They reminisce about times their parents took them there as kids. We'll see if it works out, if we have enough time, but at least we now know that it really is worthwhile. 

Warmed through thoroughly we make our way back to our tents. We wake up long before the sun has peeked over the ridge and arrive at the pool early enough to be alone for a little while. That changes earlier than I would have expected, and we leave to have our noodle soup and sandwich breakfast.

Just like the last couple of times we take a different trail out. Instead of hiking up the steep, rocky trail we turn to the right. Will we be able to climb up beside the dry waterfall? If not, we'll have to go back to where this trail branches off – but we don't intend to! It is nearing noon, and with the sun shining into the canyon more blossoms have opened. A few more days, and brittlebush will light up this whole area. We stop to rest at the petroglyphs, again puzzling over what the depictions could mean, again marvelling at the fact that people have lived here for thousands of years. Are we trespassing here? There is nothing to indicate that, but I do feel the faintest hint of some other presence. Just like the people who etched their stories or instructions, or whatever else they might have been, into these rocks, we share the space with the other living beings of this place, from lizards to bees to the smallest desert plants. It is good to keep that in mind.

After climbing over a couple of shorter sliprocks we finally arrive at the 'place of no return': we have reached the dry waterfall, and now there is nothing for it, we have to brave the rocks. Likely this is an issue only for me, but just like the time before it is less so than I anticipated. Hands and feet find their holds easily enough, and in a few minutes we are up and back in the wash. Only a little while later we have reached the main trail, and about 24 hours after we arrived here we are once again ready to move on.

After a short stop at the Lake Mead overview – the water level, sadly, still low – we are on our way to Beatty, Nevada, our starting point for the next day's visit to Death Valley National Park. 

The first California poppy

Meanwhile I remembered something I wanted to mention when I wrote this a couple of days ago:

At the camp check after packing up, something strange and yet strangely familiar caught my eye in the lower branches of the tree under which we had pitched the tent. Could it be? The tousled horse hair of a broken violin bow was draped over the branch! It was the frog that alerted me: even though I haven't touched my violin in years my unconscious couldn't let me forget; too often my fingers held this particular piece. This was surreal! Who would bring a violin into this canyon? How could you be careless enough to break the bow - and how just abandon it here? On the other hand, the way the bow was suspended from the tree had an almost artistic flair.